My darling Rowan asked the questions at the Pesach meeting that my mother took him to. And he found the lucky matzo. They swapped it for him for £1. He was so proud of how good he’d been and so pleased with his prize. My mother was so proud and happy with his wonderful goodness and his interest.

I used to have a problem with my mother taking him to religious gatherings. Let me tell you why I don’t have that problem now.

My son is not baptized and there was the bellows to mend when I decided he wouldn’t be. I endured all sorts of snide asides about the matter, not to mention a few direct attacks and assurances that he would be the subject of eternal damnation, cast into the outer darkness like an ordinary sinner, because of his unshriven state. I took a long time reminding the various commentators that Ro was a tiny child, utterly innocent, and therefore God would take him home. How could He do otherwise, if we were so unlucky as to lose him? So now, when my mother who is a committed Christian, and a good and solid woman to boot, takes him to church and to all manner of semi-religious meetings and gatherings, I don’t make a fuss. I have seen, you see, that she isn’t approaching the subject of Rowan’s religious introduction the same way as she did mine. I’m grateful for this, but also entranced and reassured.

It’s been a tough year and I’ve worked very hard to remove myself from, first, the terrible, aching, dragging depression I suffered over the winter, and two, the desperate hatred I felt for my mother that was growing and putting down roots and threatening to ruin my goodness, what there is of it.

A week ago today I called my mother and told her that I felt there was a growing rift between us, that I’d started to hate her, and that I wanted it to stop. Like mothers do, she put out a hand and said, ‘Let’s talk’, and so we will.

Meanwhile, she continues to show the care and love and devotion to her grandson, my son, that she always has, and she is being gentler on me, which I appreciate, and I believe there may be a place we can meet and share and care once more. I want to love her. She is my mother. I am a mother.

It didn’t pass me by, really, it just didn’t really happen in terms of ceremonials. Instead, it happened in terms of theatricals with the smallest member of the family whooping it up as, variously, a skeleton (who nevertheless ate his own weight in Cheezepuffs) a pumpkin and a ghost with remarkably fine lungpower. Imagine thirty something toddlers to early teens, high as kites on applebobbing, suspiciously viscous loud-coloured drinks, cake, chocolate and a Lady Gaga megamix which even had my toes a tappin’, and you’ll see why further demonstration of the season was unneccessary!

It’s Bonfire Night this weekend also, actually a preferable night for me as fireworks ar eone of my very favourite things in the world.

If you want to ask me what I did in the way of sombre, po-faced ceremonials then the answer is nothing, unless you count watching Rowan wistfully and wishing my grandmama might have met him. He would have entertained her, I think.

In other news, the bookcase / study area being built for me is complete in essence and requires fettling, fixing, painting and populating – this is the single most exciting thing that has happened to me in a while. If you need me to explain why a bookcase is important to me, well! My life has been at a total and utter standstill without my oodles of movable press and I keep finding myself in the storage room, whining quietly and wondering whether a scramble over unsteady, half-unpacked boxes is worth it just to get a Scott Cunningham. It probably is, but I don’t fancy a broken ankle into the bargain!

This morning was the first frost of the season at Three Chimneys, and as I let the dog out to scombre in the garden I looked up at Orion, blazing down on me, the town around me still, no wind in the trees, that crackling hush of icy air and distance upon distance, concentric layers of cold stretching away from the warm house, and I was glad of home and hearth.

In my work as a witch I often focus on the simple, on removing encumbrances and working again with the most basic ideas and items. During my tenure as a Christian I was often stuck by the layers of obfustication, of difficulty, set on purpose between man and god; there can be no greater dishonesty (or arrogance) than proclaiming yourself the voice of god, or his representative on earth. I think of Jesus saying, ‘no-one comes to the Father except through me’ and I wonder. Mediated worship, whether led by a god or a man, cannot help but dilute the message.

This is the central tenet I return to again and again in my study of my craft. All the bells, whistles, altars, robes, music, degrees of initiation and lineages in the world, and what does it come back to in the end? You, the god, your conscience and their message. Shut up, put down the wand that cost you £60 from that great little shop in Glasto, take off the Stevie Nicks fancy-dress, put down the Silver Ravenwolf yada-crap, stop worrying about getting into that select little coven and what they think of you and are you good enough and whether they think you’re a ‘serious’ witch, and listen. Listen for the still small voice. It’s there – listen.

I had an hour with Seshat yesterday, our first for a long, long while. It was wonderful to see her so wide-eyed and happy, I got the grin which I miss, I got the laugh and the devilry and some truly hilarious anecdotes, and just being with her and wandering arm-in-arm through the town cheered me up no end.

You’ll have noted, probably, if there’s still anyone here apart from me, that is! that I’ve been totally quiet for ages. I’ll tell you why.

After moving house last Yule, I haven’t even unpacked my altar. My books and papers are still in boxes. I have done no observance and made no progress in my spiritual life. Talking with Seshat, it seems we all go through this periodically but this has been my driest dry spell ever.

Part of the problem has been lack of space. Sounds ridiculous – I’ve moved to a house quite five times the size of The Little House, and twice as big as my previous home but that’s not the issue. There is no space for me – nowhere to call my own, no quiet corner where I can have my things, nowhere safe and private and unobserved where I can meditate. It is quite uniquely uncomfortable to feel as though you have nowhere that is yours. It is one of the worst feelings for a person like me, who could happily make use of a medium-sized room what with all my books, ornaments, computer, furniture, pictures, rugs, cushions and so on. I know it’s idiosyncratic stuff, I know it holds value only for me. However, it’s been packed away so long I no longer know what I have on hand.

Help has arrived, people. After hearing me sigh wistfully over an article in Country Living regarding outdoor rooms (or lurking huts, as I prefer to call them) the BB has come up with a solution. Our bedroom is quite large and has wonderful views, and light, and there is an alcove around the door which is totally un-utilised. The BB produced an architectural draft of a plan for a bookcase / cupboard combination, which will incorporate lockable storage for private items, and a fold-away desk / table. He has bought the wood, and has begun work. I am stoked. There’s about 40′ of shelving, and masses of room for all my ceremonial items. He has also made available a lovely little lady’s desk, with a drop down lid and pigeonholes, which will sit kitty-corner with the bookcase and make the whole alcove my own private slice of heaven.

With this amazing and unlooked-for treat in store, I can feel the green shoots of recovery twining up my ankles, a strange sight in Autumn I’m sure, but even if it’s out of season it’s wonderful. It’s the beginning of our year once more, a good time to start again. And I think it goes to show that there’s nothing that can’t be done, and no reason to give up completely if there’s the least hope of a renaissance in the offing. If you fall off the horse, give it time and get back on. You have to expect to take tumbles on this type of life-long journey; dust yourself off, learn a lesson and proceed.

Hello, my dear friends. Had a short hiatus there, where the muse turned to glue. Happens to us all, I suspect! I’d like to thank all my commenters old and new for their kind words while I was away – how are we all in any case?

I have been prompted to restart by a discussion on the Facebook page of one of my dearest friends, regarding an image. I’ll post the image and a precis of the discussion when I can, perhaps later today, but it fascinated me and got me thinking again.

Since moving in with my Best Beloved all my books, papers and previous writings have been stuck in boxes in the storeroom, ungettable-at. The end’s in sight there, I have a book-case, I know which boxes the books are in, there’s a fighting chance I can get back to academic and informed blogging in weeks if not months from now! We’re so busy getting the house ready for paying guests that I barely know where the days go. However, I’ve put in for voluntary redundancy from work as I have other irons in the fire and my job is less than inspriational to my life. Instead of career-mongering, my instincts tell me to step back, get little jobs of work here and there, make up my money and be happy. A bold move for someone as concerned as I am about financial security. I’m thinking about it.

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Word to the Wise

These are my views. I welcome thoughtful comments. They will be published with minimal editing.
However, if you feel bound to try to 'save' me, teach me the error of my ways or otherwise alter my Path towards the Gods I choose, then you should pick your words carefully. If you write me on this topic I will read your posts, but I will not publish them here.
This space is sacrosanct, dedicated to the Goddess and the God.